by Jon Stock
‘Our target is the Truman – call sign CVN75, America’s eighth Nimitz-class supercarrier, nickname “Lone Wolf”. Later this week it will pass through the Strait, close to where we will be holding our biggest ever naval exercise.’ Mousavi paused. ‘There are more than six thousand personnel on board the Truman, and the commanding officer’s a Jew. The ship keeps a Torah on the hangar deck.’
An image of a naval officer appeared on screen. They both remained silent.
‘Is this a suicide mission?’ Dhar asked. The more he had heard about the operation, the more he suspected it would require the ultimate sacrifice. Mousavi turned to look at him, pausing before he spoke.
‘Not for you, of course. But there will be many martyrs. We aim to have more than a hundred fast-attack boats at sea, including our new Seraj and Zolfaqar craft, and our Bavar 2 stealth flying boats. Most will be manned, but some won’t.’
Mousavi switched the image to a photo of a heavily armed powerboat. The caption read YA MAHDI – SONAR-EVADING, and it was travelling at speed. There was no crew on board, making it look like a ghost ship, Dhar thought.
‘The Americans will use the excuse of transit passage through the Strait’s shipping lanes to conduct a naval exercise in what they claim are international waters,’ Mousavi continued. ‘They do this often.’
‘Can people in Iran see the American ships from the shore?’
Mousavi nodded. ‘Of course. It’s like the British seeing hostile warships from the white cliffs of Dover. It can be very provocative, but also to our advantage. When the Americans pass through later this week, we will carry out our own naval exercise. A wave of unmanned Ya Mahdis will approach the convoy. The Americans will expect them to turn back, assuming they are part of our naval exercise, but they won’t. When the Americans open fire – it is essential the first shots are theirs – we cry foul and retaliate in overwhelming numbers.’
More photos, aerial images of a row of twenty speedboats in a line, surging forward, followed by another line, and another. The Iranian flag billowed from the stern of each boat, and anti-ship missile launchers were mounted above the cockpits. They were crewed by men wearing bandanas. Dhar thought they looked like pirates. Mousavi began to pace around the room, gesturing like an impassioned academic as he spoke.
‘At the heart of a swarm attack lies confusion. It is essential that the enemy is overwhelmed in his mind by the sight of so many boats coming towards him. He must enter a state of true sublimity – the anarchic spectacle before him appalls and fascinates in equal measure. At first, he will see only one or two boats, but then three, five, ten, twenty. We call this the ‘sorites paradox’, or the ‘paradox of the heap’. One boat does not make a swarm. Maybe ten don’t. Who knows? It is like grains of sand. When do they become a heap? After thirty grains? Thirty-five? It is impossible to tell. With a flotilla of fast-moving boats, there is an elusive tipping point when it becomes a swarm.’
‘Why do you need me?’ Dhar asked, unsure whether Mousavi’s esoteric take on asymmetric warfare was reassuring or naïve.
‘Because Salim Dhar has become a talisman for the global fight against Zionism. Some choose to stay hidden; you have always fought on the front line. I cannot deny that morale is low in Iran. Salim Dhar is the West’s public enemy number one, a jihadi with a record of spectacular strikes against America. Your presence will help us achieve an even bigger victory against the Great Satan. It will unite our nation, justify our need for a nuclear deterrent and send a message to jihadis everywhere, triggering a pan-Islamic war against the Western world order.’
Fine words, but Dhar knew there was a degree of realpolitik too. His involvement would take some of the diplomatic heat off Iran in the aftermath of what was effectively a declaration of war against America. If it failed to ignite a wider conflict, Tehran would distance itself from the attack, accusing him of being a rogue asset who had hijacked a routine naval exercise. But he could live with that.
‘Picture the scene,’ Mousavi said. ‘The USS Truman, flagship of the US Navy, 100,000 tonnes, $4.5 billion, listing in the Persian Gulf, smoke billowing from the bridge as it sinks beneath the waves. The images will travel around the world like 9/11, only this time there will be no moral ambiguity, no civilian casualties.’
‘And I will be on board the Bradstone Challenger.’
‘Our very own “lone wolf” that will land the fatal blow. Providing, of course, that your friend delivers it from Karachi.’
‘He will.’
‘You will be well protected. Initially, Seahawks and UAVs will be your greatest threat, but they will be more concerned with targeting boats in front of yours. As the swarm gathers, the Phalanx Close-In Weapons System will become an issue. Every US warship has Phalanx. It is a fully automated, radar-guided Gatling gun that fires 4,500 rounds of armour-piercing tungsten per minute. Too many. By the time you arrive, they will be out of rounds and the Truman will be within range of your own weapon systems.’
Mousavi cued up a short video. It showed a torpedo streaking towards a destroyer and hitting it amidships. The force of the explosion seemed to lift the boat out of the water as it buckled in two and burst into a ball of flames.
‘There’s something else you should know about the torpedoes our engineers have developed for Bradstone Challenger,’ Mousavi continued. ‘The single greatest threat to a ship of Truman’s size is fire. That’s what sunk HMS Sheffield in the Falklands War. She went down in deep water six days after being hit by an Exocet missile. And it was fire that disabled most of the US aircraft carriers in the Second World War.
‘Your boat will have two torpedoes, each equipped with a small thermobaric charge. If the Truman is pierced below decks, the ensuing fireball will be catastrophic. And it only takes one torpedo to get through. In the Battle of Midway, the Japanese carrier Akagi was sunk by a single bomb striking the upper hangar deck. It exploded amidst the planes, which were armed and fuelled for take-off.’
Dhar was impressed. But no matter how Mousavi chose to cast the operation in the classroom, he knew the reality. It was a martyrdom mission. The knowledge wasn’t unsettling, because the prize was so great. A supercarrier was the embodiment of all he despised about America. According to Mousavi, ‘Give ’em Hell’, the USS Truman’s motto, was written everywhere around the ship to remind the crew of their duty. The Truman was iconic, the ultimate symbol of America’s global arrogance, patrolling the world’s seas as if it owned them. It was also vulnerable, more so than ever, an outdated form of warfare more useful for its strategic value than its tactical effectiveness. And like the Bismarck, it was an irresistible target.
Until recently, Dhar had felt he could achieve more in life than he could in death. But he had been lucky to survive the attack in Britain, even luckier to escape from Bagram. Time was running out, but there was still much to be done: America still occupied the Arab lands.
Mousavi was right. The stage was set to humiliate America in an attack that would reverberate far beyond the narrow confines of the Strait. Without him, it would be merely an act of aggression in a long-running local dispute. America would retaliate, destroying Iran’s navy and possibly its nuclear facilities, oil prices would rise slightly and the world would move on. With him, the attack would serve as a rallying cry, a call to arms in Palestine and Pakistan, Yemen and the Caucasus. Islam had reached a pivotal moment in its history, an opportunity to wipe out arrogant materialist powers. It would be the greatest victory since the Prophet Muhammad, despite his army facing overwhelming odds, triumphed at the battles of Kheybar and Badr.
They shall fight in the way of Allah and shall slay and be slain.
103
Spiro spun the numbers on the combination lock and pulled at the chain on the old hangar doors. He tried not to dwell on what he might find inside. Few people visited this corner of RAF Fairford – access was restricted to senior CIA and JSOP personnel – but he still looked around the deserted airfield before stepping inside. The hangar wa
s dark except for a shaft of cold blue light filtering in through a vent high up on one wall.
It wasn’t the prospect of finding a tortured body that troubled Spiro. He had seen enough of those in his time. It was the thought that whatever had happened in the hangar over the past forty-eight hours might one day percolate back to Linda. There would be ways to cover it up, of course. There always were. Paul Myers wouldn’t be the first GCHQ employee to be found dead in unexplained circumstances. But he knew he would be an accessory to the crime, even if he hadn’t been there in person. It was he who had given Ian Denton the use of the facility.
So why had he come? Marcus Fielding had called him earlier. To be fair to the Brit, he could have rubbed his face in it, but Fielding had chosen to remain civil.
‘Now’s not the time for recriminations,’ he had said. ‘We both believed in Denton. I made him my deputy, you made him Chief.’
‘Acting. Do you still believe in Daniel Marchant?’ Spiro had asked.
‘He’s just exposed Ian Denton as a traitor.’
‘In between busting Dhar from Bagram.’
‘You know there’s no evidence for that, Jim.’
‘At least we were right about the existence of a Russian mole in MI6. Give us credit for that.’
‘You just thought it was me. But let’s move on. I have a small favour to ask.’
‘Make it quick. The DCIA’s called me back to Langley.’
‘Denton interviewed a British intelligence officer down at RAF Fairford. Paul Myers, a Farsi analyst at GCHQ. You may have met him once.’
‘Don’t recall the guy, but I heard as much.’ Spiro wasn’t going to give Fielding any easy wins. Of course he remembered Myers. He was the fatass who humiliated him over the tape recording of Dhar’s voice. Nor was he going to tell Fielding that he himself had facilitated Myers’s interrogation.
‘For some reason, Myers hasn’t been at work. He’s not answering calls, seems to have vanished. Tempting though it would be to surround Fairford with British troops, I thought I’d give you the opportunity to find out what’s happened to him first.’
‘I’ll ask around.’
There had been no need. Spiro knew exactly where Myers was. He just wasn’t sure if he was still alive. Denton had said he needed more time with him. Then he was arrested at the COBRA meeting and Myers had been forgotten. Paying him a visit now was the least Spiro could do, given he was passing through Fairford on his way back to Langley.
The metal door banged behind him, reverberating through the hangar. Spiro flicked on a row of switches, and the hangar lit up quarter by quarter. The last switch bathed Myers in a pool of harsh white light. His naked body was hanging from a rope tied to his wrists, and there was something awkward about his shoulders and arms. Spiro could see what had happened. Denton had hanged him in reverse – some people called it a Palestinian hanging. He thought of Linda, tried to imagine her on the West Bank, waving placards, naïvely hoping for a more peaceful world.
He walked over to the body, a handkerchief to his nose. He couldn’t see Myers’s face, as his head had rolled forward, but he glanced at his injured groin. Dry blood was smeared around his stomach and thighs. Spiro thought he was inured to such scenes – he had seen far worse in Guantánamo and Bagram – but this time he felt repulsed.
Perhaps it was the excrement on the concrete floor. It was the one smell he couldn’t abide, the only thing that had made his stomach turn when he was in India. Usually he got his subordinates to clean up a detainee before he set to work on them. And it was why he always insisted on diapers.
Spiro glanced again at the concrete floor and realised that Myers’s feet were just touching it, enough to take the weight off his arms. Before he had left, Denton must have lowered him, which meant there was a chance he was still alive. Spiro moved forward, watching where he trod, and put a hand to Myers’s neck. It was warm.
For the next five minutes he worked quickly. After cutting Myers down, he washed his face with water and sat him against the hangar wall. He was still unconscious, but there were signs that he was coming round – the odd grunt, his lips beginning to move. Both his shoulders were dislocated, and Denton had been busy with a knife below the waistline. Myers, though, had refused to talk. Perhaps he hadn’t known of Dhar’s imminent escape from Bagram. Perhaps Marchant was blameless.
‘You’re OK, buddy,’ Spiro said when Myers eventually opened his swollen eyes. ‘We’re going to get you patched up at the medical unit here, then send you home.’
He hoped Linda would forgive him.
104
‘We cannot be complacent, but it does seem that the cell arrested in Greenwich yesterday was responsible for coordinating the recent spate of attacks, and had others planned.’
The Prime Minister was in an uncharacteristically good mood, Fielding thought, as he listened to him address COBRA. It was a top-table meeting today, heads of houses rather than prefects. Only one seat was empty: Spiro’s. He had attended the last COBRA meeting, despite it being for UK personnel only, but after Denton’s departure and Fielding’s return, his days in London were at an end.
‘We all owe a great debt of gratitude to Harriet and her team,’ the PM continued. ‘They have worked around the clock to track down the perpetrators.’
The quiet noise of Whitehall approval spread through the room. Earlier that afternoon, the UK threat level had been lowered from ‘severe’ to ‘critical’. Armstrong glanced across at Fielding. No one present would have read anything into the look, but he saw gratitude in her tired eyes. He would let her enjoy her moment, even though they both knew it wasn’t deserved.
‘I also want to take this opportunity to welcome back Marcus Fielding. As you know, he was’ – the briefest of pauses – ‘taken ill a few weeks ago, and then, regrettably, a warrant was erroneously issued for his arrest. I’m pleased to report that Marcus is no longer ill, and no longer wanted by Interpol.’
The PM tried to make light of the last remark, but no one was laughing.
‘As for our colleague Ian Denton, he is now on extended sick leave. Stress is a debilitating illness, too often ignored in today’s pressurised workplace.’
Fielding couldn’t believe the government was trying to brazen out the Denton affair, hiding behind the farcical cover of sick leave, but that was the agreed line. Everyone around the table knew the truth, but the PM was having none of it, at least for the time being. According to Armstrong, the Americans were as keen as the British for Denton’s treachery to be covered up for as long as possible, given he was their appointment.
Those who had witnessed Denton’s unmasking at the earlier COBRA meeting had been reminded of their responsibilities under the Official Secrets Act. The PM must have known it was a temporary measure, Fielding thought. Sooner or later the government would be forced to come clean, admit that MI6 had been penetrated at the highest levels by Moscow.
‘Which only leaves us with the problem of Daniel Marchant,’ the PM continued. ‘As you are aware, the Americans are keen for him to be questioned about his role in the attack on one of their military jets at Fairford. The British government would like to talk to him about the bombing of GCHQ, too. It seems he fled these shores and was last seen in France. But I’ll let Marcus fill us in.’
Fielding had run his strategy past Armstrong before the meeting. He glanced in her direction now, just before he looked up at the table of faces. He hadn’t planned to be entirely honest, but those assembled in the room were due an explanation of sorts.
‘It’s no secret that the Americans have long wanted to remove Daniel Marchant from the field,’ he began. ‘They suspected his father of treachery, and believed he himself was a renegade and a liability. His presence in the cockpit with Salim Dhar certainly seemed to confirm their case against him. There are others, too, who feel strongly that Marchant should be removed.’ A glance across at the Director of GCHQ. ‘After downing an American F-22, Dhar went on to attack Cheltenham, causing structural
damage to GCHQ and killing one member of staff. Marchant, of course, was still on board, making him effectively party to an act of war against his own country.
‘I realise this deserves a more thorough explanation than I’ve given in the past, but you’ll understand if I still can’t go into operational details. What I can tell you is this: Marchant is as committed as we all are to finding Dhar and bringing him to justice, despite their family tie.’ Was there a quiet intake of breath? ‘As I have said before, his options in the cockpit were severely limited. He did, however, succeed in talking Dhar out of far worse attacks on Fairford and GCHQ, a point that Washington continues to overlook. He also played a central role in drawing attention to Ian Denton’s … illness.’
Fielding glanced across at the PM, as if to emphasise the folly of his attempted cover-up, but the PM’s head was down.
‘Marchant’s current whereabouts are classified, but I can tell you that he is doing all he can to locate Dhar. And as his half-brother, he may well succeed where others fail. To this end, I have asked MI6 station heads around the world to offer him assistance. Unfortunately, the Americans remain committed to detaining him, which makes his search for Dhar even harder. I’m confident, however, that he’ll succeed. We’ve handed Dhar over once already, and we shall endeavour to do so again.’
‘Thank you, Marcus,’ the PM said, trying to sound breezy. ‘Rebuilding our relationship with Washington remains a priority, and nothing would help us more than recapturing Salim Dhar. If it takes a maverick and a liability, someone who has brought MI6 and his country into disrepute, so be it.’
It was clear to Fielding that the PM didn’t approve of MI6’s continued support for Marchant, a view he suspected was shared by everyone in the room except Armstrong. They would rather the Americans took him away to be waterboarded again. Anything to appease Washington.
Fielding sat back, wondering if he had said enough. All he needed now was time while he worked out how Marchant was going to run Dhar. So far the product – a single address in Greenwich – had been copper-bottomed, but he needed more. Dhar was a high-risk asset. He could change his mind or be killed at any time. Speed was of the essence, but there was still no contact from Marchant. It would only be so long before the CIA caught up with him.
